


If We Don't Do Something, Who Will?

by TastesLikeSTFU



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - 1980s, Angst, Cancer, Gen, Grief/Mourning, HIV/AIDS, M/M, if you're looking for a sad fic this might be one
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-29
Updated: 2014-05-29
Packaged: 2018-01-27 01:37:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1710233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TastesLikeSTFU/pseuds/TastesLikeSTFU
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written after watching <i> The Normal Heart</i>.</p><p>Derek has AIDS. Stiles does the best he can.</p>
            </blockquote>





	If We Don't Do Something, Who Will?

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this after watching the HBO movie _The Normal Heart_ and suffering from the biggest feels you could imagine.  
>  I wanted to make it longer but sometimes, the story controls the author instead.
> 
> _Additionally, if you should meet the actors, writers, creator, or anyone involved with the show/book/movie this fanfiction is about, please do not inform them, encourage them to read, or make them read this unless you have explained to me in detail why you want to expose them to my writing and have received my explicit permission to do so._

The moment that sarcoma showed up, it was a death sentence. The moment he pulled off his shirt, pointed it out and said, "I wasn't sure, at first. But it just keeps getting bigger", I knew that my time with him had just become limited. No one with lesions or sarcomas or bad coughs in our community ever made it out and dismissed it as just a bug. It felt like time was running out... like we were running out.

I always dreaded when the phone rang. Because I never knew if it was my dad calling to chat or if it was Scott calling to tell me another one of our friends had died. I can't stand calls like that. I don't think anyone can. It was always Scott that called, too. Always Scott. And I knew, just looking at the black-brown smudge that marred Derek's skin, that someday in the near future, I would be the one making the call. I would be the one telling friends and family that someone they know and love had passed while they weren't there to say goodbye. I would be the one to see him waste. But I would be there for him, I would make him comfortable, and spoon feed him applesauce, and I would love him even when he didn't need it anymore. Because there was no other way to go about it.

Things were difficult, of course. We weren't made of money, and the medical bills piled up quickly. We were spending so much money on treating his symptoms rather than his core illness. But it was all we could do.  
Sometimes, when it was late into the night, and the only sounds we could hear from our little apartment on the edge of the city were the faint noises of life, we would talk about it. We would hypothesize where he got it- a needle stick at the clinic when he'd broken his wrist about a year ago? Longer than that? From a sexual partner years before me? Who knew. He often asked me if I thought I'd had it, and if it'd show anytime soon. Every time he asked, my answer was always the same- I didn't care if I had it. It would mean that when he was gone, I would see him again.  
His death was inevitable, we both knew it. We tried to deal with it accordingly. Drew up a will, told our friends, made sure we had everything set up. But when it came to telling his family, he would freeze up. He couldn't do it. Even though they knew about me, about us, he would always freeze. He didn't want to be another casualty of the gay sickness in their eyes.

Often, we'd argue about him telling his family, as well as other smaller, more petty things. Sometimes it was difficult for us to work through these arguments. Honesty was our policy but sometimes it was hard to follow. He wasn't great with expressing his emotions, and I wasn't great at putting my thoughts or feelings into words. It made it hard to communicate when we needed to most. But we did it, we fought for ourselves and our love, and we made it past our obstacles eventually.

Near the end, I felt like I was grasping for his life with sticky kid fingers, only to find it slipping though the holes in my grip. I wanted him to live. I wanted him to _live_ , goddammit. I wanted so much for him to pull up at the last minute, surprise us all, and for him to go on another 20 or 30 years. I wanted it more than anything in my whole life. But not everyone gets what they want.  
I held his hand, and kissed his lips, and told him how brave he was, how much I loved him, and he... he died.

The phone call to Scott was... it wasn't something I ever wanted to do. If I could have, I wouldn't have done it. I would have stayed in my empty apartment, would have bundled myself in sheets that still smelled faintly like the two of us, and I would have kept it all to myself. But it wouldn't have been fair to anyone who knew Derek. So I called Scott at three in the afternoon and I forced it out of tight vocal cords, past the lump in my throat, and in a shaky voice, I told him.  
I broke. My knees gave out, I couldn't breathe, my whole world had erupted into pain I'd been holding off for too long.  
I never wanted to say it. Because to say it would make it real and I didn't want it to be. I didn't want Derek to be dead, I didn't want to face his mortality, not at the hands of some unknowable virus. Saying it out loud would mean that I had to say goodbye, that I had sat in that hospital room for too long after, sitting in the type of stifling silence that comes only when someone just ceases.

A few days before it happened, Derek was finally able to push himself and call his family and tell them. I held his hand while he called his parents back in California. There wasn't much for me to do other than to be strong by his side, and to be there when he needed me.  
I think it was one of the hardest things he had to do, when it came to his illness. Calling his mom and dad to tell them that he had AIDS was a big step for him, and even now, I'm proud of him for making that step. I could hear his mom crying over the phone, could hear his father's commanding voice go soft and tell Derek that if he ever needed anything, to let them know. After that, calling his sister, Laura, who lived out in Greenwich, was easier. Not by much, but it was still easier. 

His wake wasn't a big affair, it was his friends, his family, and me. In his will, he said he'd want to be cremated, so we honored that, and even though I didn't want to, I gave his ashes to his mother. It felt like letting go again, but she deserved them. She hugged me close and told me that she loved me, and said that I would always be part of her family.  
A few weeks later, I got an express mail package with a little ornate box of Derek's ashes and a letter that said I needed him too. I clutched the box in too white fingers and I let myself cry.  
Derek died almost six months after finding the cancer, and it is three months now, since he has died. As of writing this, I've found almost four sarcomas on my body and I find it oddly... appropriate. I've drafted a will of my own,  I'm waiting to call my dad, and I haven't told Scott yet.

I can't help but wonder, who will call Scott this time?


End file.
